Abstract
THERE are fogs and fogs,—from the one extreme of the dry fog of continental meteorologists which merely blurs the sky with a bluish-tinted mist and shears the sun of its brilliancy as it nears the horizon, so that the eye can look on its disk undisturbed, to the other extreme of our genuine London fog which at times condenses to a consistency so thick as to give point to the sketch in Punch some years ago, representing a street-boy springing, into the air, exclaiming “I am monarch of all I survey.”
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Fogs . Nature 21, 355–356 (1880). https://doi.org/10.1038/021355a0
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DOI: https://doi.org/10.1038/021355a0